To A Musical Nazarene

You are a gifted young boy
in a corner of the villlage market,

strawberry blond hair
to your waist,
dancing eyes,
t-shirt, jeans and rubber boots,

playing on your violin,
Bach from memory,
flawlessly
welling up from your soul,
soaring over the noisy crowd,

ignored by the people,
hour after hour,
setting the tone,
wrapping milling throngs
in old varnished
wooden baroque,

no hat laid out or tin can
in simple answer
to my inner question “why?”
no gleaming pools
along your woodland stream
for my grateful coin.